


reach inside (to find your heart is beating)

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Caretaking, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Season/Series 03, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26421100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: This is Tim, opening the door enough for his tired, careworn face to peer through the crack; Jon sees the genuine horror on his face as he takes in his boss, bloody on his doorstep, and he thinks– maybe– he thinks he might be safe here.“Christ.”Chapter two added January 17th!
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker
Comments: 81
Kudos: 544





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tiny tw for Tim mentioning periods for a half second by way of comparison

Tim’s house is the closest. 

Jon thinks he might just be able to reach it, even if it's not much of a better idea than passing out on the street. No, that’s… that’s uncharitable. Tim’s is… Tim is the best he has, right now. He’s just not thinking clearly. He’s… well, he’s lucky to be on his feet at all.

Tim’s house looks like sanctuary, even though Jon knows it might not be. But he staggers for it as fast as his legs can carry him, nearly feels weak at the knees to see lights on through the curtains, and he has never been so thankful Tim lives in his own standalone building, a proper house, because he’d never make it through a complex. Nevermind someone calling the police before he could.

But this is all conjecture. His mind is running away from him. He desperately needs to sit down. He keeps hurrying along for Tim’s, and half trips up the three steps at the path to his door. Then he leans on the buzzer, tries to knock but he’s so _tired._ His fingers are slick with his own blood. He hopes Tim is listening. He hopes he’ll answer the door. He hopes he’s awake or, hell, _home._

 _The lights are on, but nobody’s home,_ something taunts in his head. Jon breathes in a gasp of air, and exhales with a whimper on his tongue.

But Tim is home. At least, someone is fiddling the locks, and Jon can’t fathom creatures coming to kill him, can’t let himself think of people who aren’t people. This isn’t some final, wild trick from all the things still trying to take away everything that is his. This is Tim, opening the door enough for his tired, careworn face to peer through the crack; Jon sees the genuine horror on his face as he takes in his boss, bloody on his doorstep, and he thinks– maybe– he thinks he might be safe.

_“Christ.”_

Jon’s been leaning against the doorframe, but he feels himself starting to sag. More and more. His legs are shaking. _He’s_ shaking. “Sorry, I–” He has to pause to breathe, wheeze, so very close to hyperventilating, he thinks. “– I didn’t know where else– your house was closest–” His knees buckle; he digs his nails into the framework and tries to hold himself up.

“What… what the hell happened…?”

“Oh… you know. Things, trying to kill me.” He tries to laugh, and then he tries to wave his hand in dismissal because things trying to kill them is normal, usual, these days. But that’s a mistake, since he’s trying to hold onto the wall, and his knees buckle for good this time. He anticipates hitting the ground, waits for the cool, hard reprieve of concrete beneath his face, and hopes unconsciousness will be more kind than reality is now.

It doesn’t happen. Jon doesn’t see Tim move, but he must; one minute, Jon’s certain he’s going to faint, the next, he’s jerked upright with a jolt of pain that has him yelping aloud, and Tim’s holding onto him, helping him, trying to shuffle him into his house even as Jon’s limbs don’t want to work with him.

“Christ! Is this all your blood?”

“Yes,” he thinks he mumbles. He thinks it is. It must be. He hadn’t stood a chance against _that_ thing out there. He certainly hadn’t _hurt_ it.

“Shit– _hey.”_ He’s shaken again, tossed around like a ragdoll as Tim tries to rouse him back to full consciousness. “Don’t you _dare_ come to my house to _die,_ Jonathan Sims. You don't get to do that. You _don't.”_

He wants to tell him he hadn’t planned to. He wants to tell him he doesn’t want to die, now, here, in Tim’s entranceway, but all he guesses he says is, “‘m so tired.”

“Well, _tough.”_ Tim’s voice sounds far away. “We’re all tired, so stay the fuck awake.”

He’s right, of course. That they’re all tired, and that he should stay awake. He knows what he’s talking about, but then, Tim always _had_ been smart. It was why Jon had asked him to work in the archives, that reputation. “Mhmm,” Jon hums, and winces as he half falls, is half dropped onto what’s probably the sofa. “Sure…”

“Where are you hurt? Hey!” The flat of a palm against his face, _mostly_ gentle but definitely determined. “Wake _up,_ where’s the blood coming from?”

God. He just wants to sleep. “… back,” he murmurs. He wants to say he’d been running, and that was when it had gotten him, but he still wants to sleep. He sounds far away. He _feels_ far away, as Tim shoves and guides and manhandles him, and then Jon hears him curse, also from even further away, and maybe thinks that something like panic trickles into Tim’s voice.

“Oh, Christ, Jon.”

It’s probably bad. It’s– yeah, it’s definitely bad, there’d been too much blood and Jon’s too faint and everything had _hurt_ so badly but even that is a distant, hazy memory. He’s struck with the thought that he’s bleeding out on Tim’s couch. With the _one person_ who has viscerally _hated_ him since Prentiss’s attack, well– well, that sounds about _fitting,_ doesn’t it? Jonathan Sims, just can’t catch a break!

His head swims. He slumps sideways.

“Oh, no, no, _Jon.”_ The hands at his arms are an afterthought. A phantom impression of caretaking that he hasn’t felt in… hasn’t felt since his childhood. The feeling slips away as quickly as it had come, as the darkness starts to properly crowd in. “Hey! Don’t even…” 

Jon’s losing words in the conversation now. He thinks he hears Tim say his name, his name proper, once or twice more. He thinks he feels another spark of pain, directly against that terrible gash that must be at his back. But he can’t hold onto it any more than he can decipher the words Tim is saying, and he can’t open his eyes again anyway.

He is tired, and unconsciousness is bliss.

He sleeps.

  
  


The room is dark when he opens his eyes. It isn’t suffocating, or nauseating, but… gentle, and warm. There’s a blanket draped over him. His glasses are missing, but shapes come easy to him nonetheless: a low table, an unlit lamp, an armchair. He’s… he’s still at Tim’s. Right… right. He had made it here last night. Tim had… must have let him stay. Either that or he’s dead, but, well, he’s starting to become aware of _pain_ so he doesn’t think it’s that. 

He tries to move, just a bit; there’s definite pain, sharp and jagged at his back. He stops moving and tries to breathe through it. That hurts, too. It’s uncomfortable. He’s uncomfortable. He breathes in again and the pain cuts through like a knife. He wonders if that’s normal for how badly he’d been hurt. He wonders how badly he _had_ been hurt. He wants to know, wants to sit up and feel out his wounds, find a mirror and assess the damage. But it hurts to breathe, let alone move, and now he’s struggling to push down the panic that had been creeping up on him earlier, too. God, he doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need _any_ of this, not now, not when he has so much to do– 

When something shifts in the darkness, Jon startles. But it only takes another moment to put together the shape sat on the floor is Tim. He hadn’t even noticed him sitting there. Slumped there, against the couch. There’s just enough moonlight straining past the curtains that Jon can barely make out his face when he twists around to look at him; there’s exhaustion there, that speaks that he’s been asleep, too. At least a little bit. Probably not enough. _We’re all tired._

“You’re awake.” Tim’s voice is low, deeper with interrupted sleep, and quiet, like he doesn’t want to speak any louder, like it’s going to… shatter something. Like the rug will be pulled out from under them if he does. 

Maybe it will, but Jon has to answer. Except all he can say in response is, ridiculously, “why are you on the floor?”

Tim looks as taken aback as Jon feels. Stupid, what a _stupid_ thing to say when there’s so many more things he could have– “I don’t know,” Tim says. There’s a moment of silence, before his face twists in what might have been… it almost looks like agony. “I thought you might die,” he admits, continuing.

“Oh.” It doesn’t really answer the question, but Jon doesn’t ask again. He just… really doesn’t feel like it.

“Guess you didn’t, though,” Tim says, in the same, flat, tired tone.

“No…” Jon might have laughed, but it comes out a wheeze. “I guess I didn’t. My, uh, m–my– the wounds, how–”

“They were bad,” Tim interrupts. “They were…” He sighs, then, somehow seeming to get even _more_ exhausted as he has to relive it. But there’s more emotion there than Jon’s heard in _weeks_ from him, emotion that isn’t the usual anger and severity of the past… months, it’s been months. “They were _really_ bad. There was… _so_ much blood. Not like, oh, having sex on a period bloody, but, like… _proper_ bloody.” He drags his hands down his face, and Jon realizes for the first time that Tim’s shirt is stained and dark in large, irregular patches. His blood, Jon realizes.

He looks down at himself best he can, trying to see the damage for himself, now that he’s out of danger, now that he’s more conscious of things, but… no. He’s mostly free of blood, as far as he can tell, and… and the sweater he’s wearing isn’t _his,_ isn’t the one he’d staggered in here wearing. It’s so roomy against his otherwise bare torso that it can only be Tim’s, and Tim seems to notice his line of thought.

“I had to cut it off you. The other one. So. Hope you weren’t attached.”

“Oh.”

“It was kinda… “ He gestures vaguely. “Stuck. And I wasn’t sure moving you around that much would be, you know… good.”

“No, it’s fine–”

“Needed to be able to see to sew you up.”

“You–” Jon feels himself pale again, feels his stomach twist in another bout of squeamishness. He should be used to it, by now. “You gave me stitches…?”

“Yeah.” He says it so simply.

“H–How– I… I wasn’t aware you knew how to, um… stitch someone up.”

“I don’t.” Tim shrugs. “Not really. But I bought the _big_ first aid kit a long time ago, and did some research, you know… what with how we need skills beyond the _typical job requirements.”_

“You…” Here was Tim, who’d been _prepared_ for having to give stitches to someone. Sure, Jon had stocked up on first aid, too, he’d… he’d thought it was _necessary,_ and he hadn’t been wrong, but… God, he didn’t even know if his kit _had_ the necessary supplies for sutures. Let alone having the wherewithal to actually… He shudders, and continues, weakly, “thank you.”

“Think you’ve got a busted rib, too. You’ve got a nasty bruise.”

“Ah, that… that’s probably… probably why I _hurt…_ so bad.”

“Portion of it, yeah.” Tim closes his eyes, only for a moment, and then starts to stand. Jon can see the full extent of blood on _him,_ now, as his eyes adjust to the dark. Down his shirt and onto his trousers. A spot, missed, smeared across his forearm. Probably elsewhere. “I didn’t give you anything. For pain, I mean. You were unconscious, so…”

“Yeah. Uh.” He realizes he doesn’t remember how to _talk_ to Tim. And now couldn’t really be a worse time, but here they are. “Probably for the best,” he manages, trying to joke.

Tim doesn’t smile. “I’ll get you something. They’ll knock you right out, but…”

“But I’m not going to complain,” Jon interjects smoothly. Being unconscious again still sounds better than this.

“Yeah. Be kinda hard for you to, considering you’ve got nothing else right now.”

Tim vanishes around the corner, and Jon sighs into the darkness. It _hurts,_ and he winces. He wants to move, though; he’s never been much good at staying still if he doesn’t have something to occupy his mind with. Sure, he can sit for _hours_ with statements but lounging around to relax, to recuperate? He’s _terrible_ at it. He wants to ask Tim… y–yes, he wants to ask him for help, again, but he _doesn’t_ want to, even if need will necessitate it sooner or later. He presses his feet– bare now, except for his socks– against the arm of the couch, and tries to stretch in lieu of squirming. He can’t wait for the medication. At least if Tim’s being truthful and they do make him sleepy, but, hell, if they can knock someone like Tim out, Jon’s probably going to sleep for a week. He isn’t sure he minds. God… he isn’t sure he minds at all.

“Here.” Tim comes back with a glass of water and the bottle of pills. “You…” He sighs, then, too. “I guess you’ll have to sit up. Here.”

Somehow, Tim sets the things down and stoops to help him sit up before Jon can even ask. It’s slow going– Jon hurts a _lot_ more than he’d previously thought, and his skin pulls uncomfortably. He wonders if it’s the stitches, or dried blood on his skin. He tries not to think about it. But Tim props up his shoulder while he takes the glass and swallows the pill, and then is again grateful when Tim helps to ease him back onto his side again.

“Won’t take too long.” Tim’s fingers hesitate near the bottle, touching the lid just briefly. “They were from Prentiss.” He pulls away, and steps across the room.

The lamp clicks on, and Jon winces from the light. “You still have them?”

“I’d gotten a refill. Just never used it.” Tim shrugs, eases himself into the armchair. “Figured I’d probably need it for something, eventually.”

“Well…” Jon breathes out slowly, trying to ward off the burn in his bones. “You weren’t wrong,” he says thinly.

“Didn’t really expect to use them on _you,_ though.”

“… sorry.”

“Yeah. Just…” Again, his voice changes. It’s the same world-weary tone as before, just… Jon didn’t think Tim could sound _more_ defeated, these days, but just now… he does. “… don’t… do that again…”

“I…” He wants to joke. Something stops him. “I’ll try not to,” he whispers, the closest thing to a promise he can give these days.

“Huh.” Tim slouches lower, and seems to notice the blood dried on his arm just then. He scratches it off lightly, making an effort, so Jon tries to, too.

“You’ve got…” He gestures, vaguely, towards the rest of the blood.

“I _know.”_

“Oh.” He swallows, and can taste blood on his tongue. Or maybe he imagines it. “You didn’t change.”

“More focused on you. You were… shaking, I guess, probably from blood loss. Maybe from the cold. So I made sure I got you into something. And then I was _tired.”_

“Oh.”

“Too tired to change. I was… I think I was asleep, watching… something,” he flicks his hand, dismissive, towards the TV, “but… I was asleep. Then… here you were.”

“Oh,” Jon repeats. “You could–” No, wait. The last thing he wants to sound is accusatory, and he knows Tim will take it that way. He blunts it into a question, and prays to God it doesn’t compel him. “Why didn’t– why didn’t you… um, call someone? Take– take me to hospital?”

“Didn’t know if it was safe,” Tim says simply. “I… you could have led the thing that attacked you here, for all I knew. I wasn’t taking the chance.”

“Fair.” That makes sense, and it’s more of a logical explanation than Jon would have arrived at, if the situation had been reversed. “Um, I… I didn’t, right?” He has to ask, suddenly afraid the blood on Tim _isn’t_ just all his–

“No.”

“Oh thank God.”

For a second, he thinks Tim almost smiles. But it’s dark. He might have as easily imagined it… but he wants to believe it was real. Just for a second.

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Thank _something._ But go to sleep, boss. We keep having heart-to-hearts and someone might think we actually _like_ each other again.”

“I never stopped.” He doesn’t mean to say it. It won’t help. But living with regrets and the threat of losing people he _genuinely does_ care for, it’s too much for Jon right now. He’s tired, and in pain, and… and… Christ, Tim’s right. He needs to sleep.

“Yeah. Well.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Too heavy for Jon, as it pushes him down into the sofa and the blanket now tangled around his waist. He doesn’t have anything else to say, and he’s half afraid to, anyway. And Tim… he knows Tim won’t. Can’t. Maybe he just can’t.

Jon understands that feeling, too, if he’s being totally honest.

The pain pills kick in mercifully quick, and he falls asleep with Tim watching over him once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that good whump..... begrudging caretaking... I just love Tim being that kind of ass we see in canon even though we know the Reasoning (good Reasoning) behind it...


	2. Chapter 2

Morning does not dawn peaceful. It figures, Jon thinks, staring at the light coming through the windows. The curtains are still drawn, but it’s bright enough to make Jon’s eyes hurt. Everything hurts, and he’s nauseous now, product of those pills, probably, if it’s the same thing they had given him after the worms. Christ, he’s woozy. He hopes he doesn’t throw up on the floor. Talk about adding insult to injury.

He remembers making it here… to Tim’s. He remembers brief moments of conversation, and pain, and blood. So much blood. But he’s alive. He’s… he’s as alive as he gets, these days.

… he doesn’t know if that’s a comfort, or a horror.

Either way, he is alive. And he’s just about reached his limit for sleeping on the sofa. He’s aching and uncomfortable, and is going to have to figure out the way to the bathroom. And he’s hopeful, very hopeful, that he can make it to the toilet and the tap without having to vomit, fall over, or pass out. Bit of a toss-up.

It becomes less so when he tries to sit up; he just about manages, but not before his skin pulls uncomfortably, and try as he might, Jon still makes a noise that gets stuck somewhere between a groan and a whimper. His arm shakes as he braces against the armrest so he doesn’t pitch right back over. Right then. Very slow going.

He does manage to sit up. Slowly, slowly, and he doesn’t know if he needs more painkillers to chase away the pain, or something in his stomach to help with the churning in it. Water, at least. He leans his forearms against his knees and tries to catch his breath. Everything feels so far away in this house that he doesn’t know anything about. It prickles the anxiety and fear beneath his skin, and he can’t push it away.

“… probably shouldn’t be moving, you know.”

Tim’s voice in the otherwise silence makes Jon _flinch,_ which, incidentally, isn’t _really_ a good feeling. And it startles him enough that his hand flies to his chest in such an overdramatic fashion that that would make him cringe in itself if he didn’t have enough problems to worry about already. “Christ, Tim.” The words just slip out. He drops his hands back to clutch at his knees and takes another breath.

“Sorry.” And he does sound sorry, mostly. Still a little flat, but… Jon doesn’t know. Not hostile, not that he has any reason to believe Tim’s going to suddenly turn on him. He hadn’t last night, although Jon sort of _had_ been covered in copious amounts of blood last night… 

Looking up, Tim’s standing in the hall that probably leads back to the bathroom. _He’s_ not covered in blood any longer, either. Instead, he’s wearing a sweater that looks way too normal on him, and a pair of jeans with holes at the knees. His hair’s tousled, damp, and Jon realizes, from the towel still around his neck, he’d probably just gotten out of the shower.

“Just don’t think you’re in a state,” Tim continues shortly. “You know, for ‘strenuous activity.’ What’re you trying to do, anyway?”

 _I’m not trying to run a marathon here._ He bites back the retort, pain making him acidic, and swallows. “Trying to get water–”

“You could have just _asked.”_

“– and find the toilet,” Jon continues, before Tim can bustle off to the kitchen like it looks like he’s about to do.

“Oh.” Tim’s hands seize for a moment, thumb rubbing up against his knuckles while he hesitates, and then steps forward. “Could’ve still asked,” he mutters, and then, raising his voice, “can you walk?”

Jon laughs. There’s a right answer and a wrong one, but he knows which one he’s giving. “I’m going to,” he says, because he will if it kills him. Sure, his pride is nearly nonexistent now, but he never has been good at being vulnerable around people. Especially here, and especially now.

“Sure.” For his part, Tim looks just as lost as Jon feels and, that, more than anything else this morning, almost… comforts Jon. In a dismal way, but still. “Come on,” Tim says, holding out a hand. “But if you puke on my feet, I’m going to let you fall.”

It feels like an empty threat, although Jon doesn’t want to push his luck.

“Duly noted,” he says instead, and returns to the grueling process of getting back to his feet.

He does not pass out, miraculously, but it isn’t an easy walk. Every movement pulls at his skin, even in the spots where he doesn’t think there’s stitches. It’s probably dried blood. There’s probably still dried blood beneath this sweater, and if there isn’t, Jon doesn’t want to know what he’s feeling. A product of his imagination. Things just gone _wrong,_ and he wonders if the thing last night had been of The Flesh. He doesn’t want to think about that, either.

Everything _hurts,_ and he’s breathing hard by the time they cross the threshold of the bathroom. He’s more nauseous than ever, and there’s stinging in his eyes. It’s all agony, all from a wound he’d managed to flee to Tim’s house with, but now he can hardly handle a walk down the hall.

Tim looks uncomfortable, too. Looking anywhere but Jon, jaw set like he’s the one in pain. He stops in the doorway, Jon leaning heavily against his side now, and gestures vaguely. “Are you–”

“Yes,” Jon interrupts. He will not suffer any more indignity, and he needs a moment to himself. Maybe even a few. As much as he doesn’t want to know what his back looks like, he _needs_ to, and Tim’s bathroom has a mirror.

“Good,” Tim says, stepping back once Jon gets himself steadied against the counter. “Because. _Yeah.”_ He takes another step back. “You’re gonna want more pills, right?”

“Is it time?"

“Close enough,” Tim replies, and continues after Jon nods, “I’ll get them ready. And water. And a bin, for whenever you inevitably hurl.” Then he’s gone before Jon can even try to thank him or berate him either way.

 _Like he can’t get away from you fast enough,_ Jon thinks with a wry smile, but he doesn’t linger on it. He’s got other things to worry about.

When he’s finally able to take that moment and stagger to a stop in front of the sink mirror, he bundles up his borrowed sweater and tries to inspect his injury. And it isn’t difficult; there is still blood, dried and old now, leading to a long, angry looking wound, terrible at even this angle as Jon nearly kills himself to try and twist to see better. It is a clean cut, no jagged edges, but even then, it’s still red and puffy and generally abhorrent. It’ll scar, but what else is new? 

The stitches are new. Not that he’s never had stitches– he has. A few when he’d been younger, and his fair share from the Institute. But these are less… professional? Still _neat,_ somehow, it isn’t that that’s making his stomach turn again. Dark rows against his skin, surgical thread holding him together.

He lets the sweater fall back down over the offending thing, and has to go sit next to the toilet until this nausea can subside. _Again._ Fuck.

He must sit there long enough that Tim deems it necessary to come back, because his knocking against the bathroom door startles him back to full awareness. “Jon?”

Oh, right. Tim. Tim’s house, Tim’s bathroom, Tim waiting on him at the other side of the door, probably wanting him to get the hell out. Jon would probably be thinking the same. Maybe. He isn’t so sure anymore. The whole regime of pushing people away to protect them has gotten… old, he thinks. “Yeah.”

“… got you some water, and the pills. If, uh… you want them now.”

“Sure.” Jon licks his lips and tries to sit up a bit. “You can come in.”

For a second, another moment of hesitation. Indecision. But then the door opens, an almost defiant swing to it, even though Tim comes to a quick halt in the doorway upon laying eyes on Jon again.

“You look like shit.”

Jon wants to laugh, but he wheezes instead. “Incidentally… I feel like shit.”

Tim looks for a moment longer, and then gravitates to the countertop to put down the glass of water. “You know it’s not going to do any good if you just hack these back up.” He shakes the bottle, and frowns down at Jon. “Like. You could just.” He makes a gesture alluding to sticking his finger down his throat. “Get it over with.”

“I’m–” Jon has to force himself to breathe out, slowly. “Not really up for it, I don’t think.”

“Don’t have the stomach for it.”

“Not particularly,” he admits, and thinks Tim almost rolls his eyes.

“Well, sucks for you, because I’m not offering my toothbrush to help, either.”

This time, he does laugh. A weak, weary noise, and for that split second, he thinks Tim _almost_ smiles again. Like late last night, in the hazy memories he has from getting here. An almost lapse where the anger disappears, where something like the old Tim perks up and wants to play along. Maybe there’s hope. But Jon doesn’t know.

“I’ll tough it out,” he says instead, and looks beseechingly at the glass of water.

Tim takes the hint. “Fine. Don’t blame me when they don’t work because they’re in the toilet.” He hands them down, and Jon shakily takes them.

“I’ll tough it out,” he repeats, and gingerly swallows the pills with as much water as he thinks is safe right now. Then it’s just going to be a matter of waiting, uncertain if he should stay here or go back to the sofa.

But, no… he shouldn’t stay here. He shouldn’t be here, in general. He’s… he’s grateful Tim had opened the door last night. He really, _truly_ is. He’ll owe him more than he can repay. But that was then and this is now. He’s not in immediate danger. Neither of them are. There’s nothing keeping him here except pain, and it’s an old friend by now. And it isn’t Tim’s job to weather it for him. It should have never been. 

… he doesn’t exactly know how, or where, he can go, though. Home is probably safe, now, but so far off and he has doubts if a cab will take him like this. He could… he could call Martin– Christ, but if he does, he’ll never get him out of _his_ hair. And there were always the girls, but… doubtful they’d answer a house call. Maybe that’s not charitable, either, but Jon knows he doesn’t deserve them to. And– of course– there’s Georgie, but… but, no, that wouldn’t… that wouldn’t be a good choice, either.

There’s a lot to be said here, isn’t there? He allows himself to feel a little bit bad for himself, and then pushes it away. “I can– hm, call someone. Or a–” He tries to sit up. “Or a cab. I think I still had my phone with me, last night.”

“It’s on the table.” Tim’s frowning again, eyebrows drawn together in a way that looks like he wants to say something, but can’t figure out how. Or maybe that’s just the way he opens his mouth, and then closes it again, and the frustration deepens the lines in his forehead.

Jon isn’t going to wait around. “Right. I’ll just–” He braces a hand on the toilet, preparing to shove himself back up. “– see if I can–”

“See if you can stop being an idiot,” Tim interrupts, and is there again, in his personal space, and hoisting Jon back to his feet. A little more _quickly_ than Jon had intended, but… not completely unkind. “Look, you’re _not_ my ideal house guest. Definitely not my ideal house guest. But trying to leave now is just doing your stupid fucking shoot first, ask questions later shtick again. So, don’t.” Tim drops his hand from Jon’s arm, and then takes _Jon’s_ hand to place on his arm for support again. “Didn’t ask for you to come here, but I’m not letting you leave like this.” 

Even after last night, Jon doesn’t really… no, he doesn’t expect that at all. It’s… _fair,_ and he probably wouldn’t get very far to begin with, if he’s being honest. But for Tim to outright refuse like that. “Tim…”

“Don’t,” Tim interrupts. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say. I don’t want to hear it. I just don’t need the guilty conscience. That’s _all.”_

He’ll let Tim think he believes that. And maybe it’s true, but there’s a doubt Jon can’t shake from the words, even as he sets it aside. “Okay,” he says simply, and tightens his hold on Tim’s arm. “I’ll– the sofa, then. I’ll just… pass out, a while longer. Before I go.”

“Might as well sleep in bed.”

“What?”

Tim shrugs. “Well, I’m not in it, so. Might as well.” Like it’s no big deal. Like inviting your boss to sleep in your bed was a normal thing. (And Jon’s too tired to go there, too tired to raise eyebrows at the innuendo of his own thoughts. It’s… so very far from any realm of possibility, these days.) “You’ll be in my way if you stay out there,” Tim continues, offhand, and Jon just nods.

“Right. TV,” he says understandably, and then, coming to terms with things suddenly in that moment, “what about work?” he blurts, and the sigh that rushes from Tim’s lips… does make him feel bad, actually.

“One day won’t kill us. Theoretically.”

“Should’ve called in…” Jon mumbles, but it’s a halfhearted argument that he finds he doesn’t much care about. Too late now, in any case.

“Bet _Elias_ already knows. Everything,” Tim clarifies, like they need the clarification. “Bet he would have let you die.”

Probably. Maybe. Jon actually doesn’t know. He stays silent, opting to focus on putting one foot in front of the other until they make it to Tim’s bedroom. And that, that’s so _normal_ in itself that Jon has to take a moment once they’ve made it. Just to ogle at the mess of clothes and books and cluttered desk, and the few trinkets sitting around. He looks at the wilting plant on the windowsill, and tries not to linger on the suggestive looking magazine atop a dresser.

Tim challenges him before he can say a word. “Judging?”

“Admiring,” Jon admits, because while it’s not cluttered, just disorganized, it feels… comfortable. He tries not to think about how it feels more lived-in than his own flat, but, well, there it was.

Tim makes a noise, a scoff, a noise of derision and… _laughter._ Maybe true laughter. “Just get in bed, boss.”

The words don’t mean what they say, but Jon feels a blush start to warm his cheeks, and maybe he can digest a little innuendo, after all.

Tim notices, too, and _scowls_ like he’s appalled at the idea; after everything he’s done for leads at work, after some of the stories he’s told, and the look on his face just then looks worth a million words. Jon almost wishes he had a camera. “Just… go to _sleep,”_ Tim amends, and jerks his head towards the bed in clear indication Jon should _get moving._

He does.

Tim’s bed feels heavenly after the sofa, and the bathroom floor. Jon practically sags onto the mattress when Tim lets go of him as soon as he can, and then has to force himself to wriggle beneath a blanket. It’s so, so tempting to flop and stay there, sprawled halfway across the bed, but he doesn’t. He slides beneath the blanket that smells of something that’s becoming familiar, and comforting, and tries not to breathe too deeply when his head hits the pillow. Creature comforts. He really ought to learn to appreciate them, more.

All the while, Tim hasn’t made a move to help. Not again, not anymore than necessary, Jon guesses, but he hasn’t _left._ He’s standing by, just watching, with a look on his face that’s… Jon doesn’t know. Pinched, maybe, although he doesn’t understand why. Maybe it’s just the visual of seeing his eldritch boss in his bed. Jon tries not to think about either aspect of that sentence.

No use dwelling. “Thank you, Tim,” he says instead, and closes his eyes.

“… yeah.” Tim steps back, bare footsteps muffled on the carpet floor. “I mean. Don’t do it again.”

He’d said that last night, too. Jon does remember that.

“I’ll try not to,” he says, again, and this time, tries to make it a promise. They both know it isn’t one he really has much business making, but…

Surprisingly, Tim doesn’t call him out on it. “Sure,” he says, and rests his hand on the doorknob. Jon opens his eyes just enough to watch him pause, again, in the doorway.

He doesn’t know if there’s much hope, but, right now, they’re safe. They’re _both_ safe. That counts for something. It matters.

Tim meets his gaze for a moment and then takes another step into the hall, pulling the door behind him. “Go to sleep, boss,” he repeats, and Jon thinks he’ll have no trouble in doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's Jon, so used to pushing people away or getting resistance from people, unsure how to talk to Tim, of all people. And then there's Tim, lovely Tim, who is angry and bitter but still cares so goddamn _much,_ after losing two of the people he cared for the most - Danny, and arguably Sasha - who wants to be angry and is angry and knows he's right to be, but... seeing Jon like this isn't satisfying, it's just... sad. It just makes it hard to hold onto the anger. It makes it harder to hold onto his coping mechanism, the way he deals with all the bullshit they're going through, so stripping him of that defense, they're both just left... lost, really
> 
>   
> _anyway_ I said I'd write this chapter eventually! Character/relationship dynamics that are long gone but maybe not totally forgotten, maybe could have been rebuilt... my favorites


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